


Tempo Giusto (The Strictly Come Dancing Remix)

by Wojelah



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-24
Updated: 2011-04-24
Packaged: 2017-10-18 14:25:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wojelah/pseuds/Wojelah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Tempo giusto</i>: in musical notation, "strict time;" in fast and loose Italian, "right time."  Dancing with Rose, in the Doctor's own time, from <i>The Doctor Dances</i> to <i>The End of Time</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tempo Giusto (The Strictly Come Dancing Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [froxyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/froxyn/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Three Dances](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/3056) by froxyn. 



> Thank you so much to my (currently anonymous) beta, who knows who she is and how much better she made it.

"You’ve got the moves? Show me your moves." Rose is standing there, mischief bright in her eyes, and it takes his breath away.

Nine hundred some-odd years old, him. Of course he's danced. Bound to happen.

What he doesn't know how to tell her is that he's been dancing his whole life, and he doesn't mean it in the "Not tonight, dear, I'm resonating concrete" kind of way. He's been dancing since he left the Looms, since before he can ever remember otherwise. He's a Time Lord. It's what he does.

Not that they'd ever have called it that on Gallifrey, where Time and Space were solemn stuff, to be measured and preserved and protected and ruled. But he'd looked into the Vortex and felt Time looking back, felt Her tempo in the beats of his hearts, in the tick of seconds and microseconds and nanoseconds and picoseconds, setting the rhythm of life, the universe, and everything. He felt it, felt Her catch him up and swing him into the dance, and he's spent the rest of his life in a sort of eternal Arthur Murray School For Dance, trying not to step on anyone's toes. The only real difference is that Time's the one leading - She may be a Lady, but She's also definitely the one giving the orders.

Some days, if he's very, very lucky, he gets it right. Some days, he's more than just a decent partner, he's a great one. Some days are so brilliant as to be exquisite.

Some days, he wishes he'd never set foot on the dance floor. But Time's a demanding partner, and She can't be ignored forever. And the good days are very, very good.

So he dances.

And yes, to load the metaphor past what it ought to have to bear, sometimes he _dances_ , because Time isn't a jealous partner. She'll let him have others, because She knows She's the one dictating all his steps, in the end. At least She would have let him before the War. Before it all fell to pieces. He hasn't dared try, since. He may be a willing partner, but he knows, like all dancers do, that dance demands sacrifice. It demands pain, and aching feet, and sore muscles. When Time sets the measure and the steps, She can demand more than that. He'd thought, this time, when it all burned, that She'd taken it all.

He looks at Rose in front of him, and finally lets himself acknowledge what he's been ignoring all along. He lets himself bicker and banter and tease, and when he takes her in his arms, the steps feel absolutely right. He likes the dance, the kind that doesn't come with innuendo. He likes having a partner. A friend.

It turns out to be a brilliant day. And when it ends - when everyone lives and they’re back and safe in the TARDIS again - Rose is still there, laughing with him as he remembers the steps to a dance he's never really forgotten.

He thinks, just possibly, that he could dance with her forever.

* * *

"You gonna lead this time?" Rose is standing in front of him, grinning as the song starts up.

The TARDIS had refused to play it for weeks due to overuse, after Rose brought the album back from HMV and fell in love, playing the same track over and over. The TARDIS has a soft spot for Rose Tyler, though - or maybe, just possibly, for both of them - and he suspects that's why the song's back in rotation. "It's kinda ours," Rose had said, not so long ago - the same night he'd promised, wildly, rashly, in a way his last self never would have countenanced, that they'd dance to it forever. He means to keep that promise, he thinks to himself, in defiance of danger and the universe and Time Herself. He means to keep Rose.

He knows, too, that when the music changes, so does the dance. It's a thought he'd much rather ignore. But the music changes, it always does, despite his best efforts, and the thought makes him gather Rose in closer, hand at the small of her back. He promises so many things, and he suspects, just maybe, this time he might be lying. Time's not jealous, but She expects to be obeyed. Still - he's promised Rose, and he damn well intends to do whatever he must to keep it. So he holds her close and buries his face in her hair and tries to ignore the uncertainty curled around his hearts.

When Rose reaches out, when her hands ruffle the short hairs on the back of his neck, he lets himself go. He falls into the touch of her lips on his and the spill of her hair through his fingers. He lets the minutes bend and slow and sway, _tempo rubato_ , feels them slide into the realms of _leggiero_ and _teneroso_. He touches her lips, her face, her hand. She touches his chest, his shoulder, his cheek. The choreography of loving Rose Tyler might break his hearts, but he'll dance with her willingly. _Gioioso_ , he thinks. _Con brio_. Then Rose frees the knot on his tie and he stops thinking about music or tempo or Italian or anything other than dancing with Rose Tyler.

She's gorgeous beneath him, although he's not sure when they'd made it to the bed. It's difficult to care as they curve and bend and flex and stretch around each other, moving like they've always known how do do this - and really, now that it's here, now that it's time, he can't believe they've waited so long. Bodies never lie, and theirs move in consummate, brilliant synchronization. He sets his mouth to her breast and knows, for the first time, how she'll shudder against him, how her arm will unfurl and her hand catch at his shoulder. She traces the line of his spine and laughs in delight, not surprise, as his head falls back. They quicken together, grasping and holding and turning and dipping and swaying, until he finally slides inside her, until they're breathless with the movement and each other, until their bodies take over without needing thought, until the moment sharpens and tightens and explodes around them, leaving them a still, fixed point for a tiny, exquisite moment.

In that moment, Time dances around _them_.

* * *

"Maybe it’s time you went home." Rose stands in front of him one last time, his last gift to himself, one last dance, though she'll never know it.

She's there, bright and golden, and for the space of a breath, he lets himself imagine what might have been. But the Rose standing there doesn't know him. The one who does changed partners - changed dances. It was all his doing, and he'd make that choice again, every time.

This Rose doesn't know him. She's got a whole life ahead of her - that much of his promise he _did_ keep, even if he couldn’t give her forever, after all. He kept her safe, and he sent part of himself into her keeping. That's a comfort, he tries to tell himself, watching her walk into her future, into his past.

He watches her go - keeps watching until Time shifts around him, until Her complicated, subtle rhythm slides wildly into something harder and beating and frantic. The shock of it nearly drives him to his knees, for all he's danced this measure before. Nine times, to be precise, but these particular steps don't get any easier with practice. The result is, he admits, looking at his hands, feeling his body start to change, pretty impressive. Not that he ever has much opportunity to appreciate it. Time demands everything of him in this performance. He'll give it all away.

Time demands everything. She always has. He's always known that. He always will. That never stops him from wishing it could be different.

And yet: he'll always choose to dance.


End file.
